A Dreamer's Path
by DizBuster
Summary: An artist that lives on the fringes of Knothole's war of attrition against Doctor Robotnik finds that there's more that goes on in a war than the battles heroes and villains fight in this slice-of-life fanfic.
1. Argument

ARGUMENT

Used to see these in books, and wondered at how a published author always managed to put you on hold before you read the story and ramble on about this or that, and somehow tie it into the story. Well, now that I find myself sitting here, doing the same about a bloody Sonic fanfic, I'm thinking different about it.

Odd.

Anyhow, the argument. It's been many a long year since I considered myself much more than a peripheral Sonic fan, and I'm getting back into the fandom much the same way I got into it in the first place; reading fanfic, and finding myself wanting to write fanfic. But thankfully, for both you and me, I've learned how to write; thus you shall be spared anything like the steaming pile that was my first attempt at a fanfic. No self-inserts, for the gods' sake no songfics, and actually following the rules of readable writing. What a joy.

But it seems to me that any, any fanfic you'll find has at least one original charcter, usually set as the star and nine times out of ten, upstaging the Freedom Fighters. Well... that's going to be a tricky subject here, and let me tell you why.

In my fanfic readings, I found my mind wandering back to the beast that started most of the fanfic you'll find here. The old SatAM show. And the intro to that show featured a pretty truncated version of a standard mission the Freedom Fighters would carry out. Heroes go in, Sally hacks the system with NICOLE's help, something blows up, Robitnik goes postal, and everyone cheers back in Knothole. Standard fare, yep? But looking back onthat intro, something grabbed my mind's eye. There's this raccoon standing just a bit apart from everything else, cheering just like everyone else. Just one of the villagers. But in my mind, I froze the screen on him, and a question started forming.

What about the rest of them?

You ask who lives in Knothole these days, and you'll get a laundry list of Freedom Fighters. Sonic, Amy Rose, Mina, Sally, Rotor, Antoine, Bunnie, Tails, Dulcy... And many more that I'm not remembering at the time. But what about the people that don't do the fighting?

It occurred to me that Knothole, being hidden in the Great Forest, on the front lines of the war against Robotnik, has to be a pretty paranoid place. The people who live there must constantly be on guard, because one single person could spell the utter ruination of everybody. And so, I imagine guard duty to be one of the most important posts in the life of the average Knothole citizen. One that everyone has to take, no matter who you are.

Well, I don't know about you, but standing in a small tower, staring into the darkness and waiting for something to happen with the likely possibility that nothing will doesn't sound like my idea of a party. And I have trouble imagining a society where no matter who you are, you do your guard duty all eager and happy to be 'protecting the city.'

So, back to that lone raccoon. He will be the focus of this story, and in fact you're likely to hear very little out of the Core Freedom Fighters in the run of this story, because my focus will be on life around the Freedom Fighters. The other people that keep the home fires burning, and make sure that at the end of the day, there's still a home to come back to. He's not really upstaging the others more like... telling the other side of the story.

Make no mistake, it's still going to be a semi-epic fanfic, but it'll be far, far different than most of the epic Freedom Fighter sagas you come across. An epic slice-of-life fanfic about the people in the background. The NPCs, for you gamers.

What can I say? I just like the idea.


	2. Dedication

Boring Legal Stuff: Sonic the Hedgehog and all related characters are the property of SEGA, DIC, and Archie Comics. I did not get permission to use them, but since I'm not going to be selling this story, it's all good. Corwyn, Harley, and any other new names that may crop up in this series are mine, obviously.

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While the battle raged eternal between Doctor Robotnik's soulless mechanical forces and the small but determined pocket of resistance known as the Freedom Fighters, the people of Knothole not actively involved in the fighting tried their hardest to go about their lives. It wasn't easy, as the constant shadow of fear darkened the otherwise peaceful valley. fear that any moment they would be discovered and rooted out. Except for the Freedom Fighters, who were only six strong, very few people had any fighting ability other than what they could find near at hand to take a swing with. But life, true to its nature, went on. Most were content to live their lives in relative security, trusting in their Princess to keep them safe.

Most, but not all.

Corwyn Darkstripes, on the other hand, was far from content. He yearned every day to join the fight, to strike at the tyrant that had taken his family and those of millions, and to win back the world. But even though his ideals were strong, he was far from being able to contribute anything to the cause. He was no gifted hacker, as Tails and Rotor were, nor a brilliant tactician, like Sally and her computer, NICOLE, not even a half-way decent fighter, as were Sonic, Bunnie, and even Antoine had proven when pressed. No, he was just an artist. Good, to be sure. Some said very good. But in a world where the shadow of war cast a pall over everything, the ability to draw a picture didn't seem all that useful.

He sighed, and picked at another clump of grass. He liked to relax near the Power Ring Pool, to rest near a major site of importance in this war. Though he was nearing his twenty-third year, the younger side of him reveled in feeling that importance, if only by proxy. He shook his head. He was getting depressed by these thoughts. He stood up, brushing the dirt from his pants, and headed into town to pick up some supplies.

He'd been getting nowhere with his art these last few days, he thought as he picked his way through the Forest. Maybe that was why he was so down. Certainly, there was nothing sweeter than finding himself in the grip of creation, pushing himself to the end of exhaustion in order to bring his thoughts into reality. It was a kind of magic, that allowed him to make his dreams real. He smiled and nodded at a small knot of people as he passed by.

Maybe today would be different...

----------------

"S'cuse me, Harley?"

Harley looked up at the tall grey raccoon, trying to remember where she'd seen him before. Her eyes lit up in recognition as she noticed the paint-smeared jeans and the large bag slung over his shoulder. "Corwyn! What a pleasant surprise!" She rose from where she'd been crouched over a particularly deviously-wrapped bundle, and shook his hand. "How've you been, kiddo? It's been ages!"

Corwyn chuckled, nodding to the bundle Harley had been fussing with. "Another paranoid trader?"

Harley scowled, her thin feline tail lashing back and forth. "I'm more inclined to think he's trying to stiff me. Last time I got a load like this, I ended up with furs so badly damaged they wren't even useable! Pah!" She spit in the dirt, her blue eyes narrowed. "Can't trust anyone these days." Then she smiled, eyes twinkling in anticipation. "So what can this little kitty do for you?"

Corwyn grinned. Now the fun part began. "You know, the usual. And please, could you give me real pigment this time, not that useless powdered plastic you set me up with last time!"

Harley swatted his shoulder. "You know better than I do I can't guarantee the quality. I'm just the middle-kitty." She arched an eyebrow and sighed. "I don't know why I waste good cargo space with powdered rocks, anyhow..."

At this, Corwyn let his bag fall to the floor. As he knew it would, the thump of the heavy cargo and the rattling of wood inside galvanized her attention. "'Cause I make it worth your while, you snob." He grinned. "After all, who else would feed your addiction if it weren't for me?"

Harley could take no more. With an abnormal lack of restraint, she craned her neck, peering into the bag, trying desperately to see what was inside. "Come ON, you ruthless tease!"

Laughing merrily, he opened the flap, pulling all four canvases out and laying them side by side for her to see. "All right, here you are. This season's offering."

Harley paid him no heed, dropping to her knees and peering at each painting, studying them closely. "My Goddess, Corwyn... These are incredible!" Each image was different, both in subject and style. The first was a landscape, showing a small grotto he'd found at the end of an underwater cave. He'd apparently set up a light to paint this one, as brightly glowing bands of reflected light washed over the rock walls, lending a mystical air to the cave. The second, a portrait he'd done of Julayla after he'd heard about her death. Every detail of the picture radiated kindness and patience, exactly as he'd known from his life here in Knothole. The third was unexpected fare from a Freedom Fighter, a dark and looming scene of Robotropolis, showing roboticized Mobians milling about with large, menacing SWATbots watching them, waiting for one of the mindless slaves to step out of line. Above it all, in a sky full of dark blue-grey clouds, a pair of burning red eyes stared down at its domain. But the fourth...

Harley's breath caught. "Corwyn... What is this?" She let her hand roam lightly over the canvas, her sensitive fingerpads taking in every last detail. The entire canvas had been painted the color of sandstone, and on that, built up in as many layers as he could, were almost true reliefs of a scene that could have been carved on a rock wall ages past. There was lightning striking Robotnik's Command center, which was crumbling to pieces. Below, a rough figure that was easily recognized as Princess Sally stood on a pedestal, holding aloft a Chaos Emerald that gave off rays of every conceivable color. On either side, primitive pictograms marched spiderlike in columns. Were it not signed by Corwyn, she could have believed this to be an ancient, restored work of art.

Corwyn grinned. "You like it? It just came to me to do it like that. You know me, I'm not big on ego-boosting, but I got this -- feeling. As for the writing, I cribbed that from a book I'd gotten from Sally. I didn't tell her what it was for, or she'd never have loaned it to me." He laughed. "She's about as humble as they get, you know..."

Harley nodded, still staring at the painting. "Corwyn... I think you should keep this. Put it in your personal collection. These other three, they'll more than pay for the materials, but... I wouldn't feel right taking this one." She looked up. "Has anyone else seen these?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Come on, Harley. You know you're the only one who sees why I lock myself in my house." He shifted his feet, embarassed. He'd long worried that if people knew he spent all his free time painting, he'd get chided for 'not doing something worthwhile.'

Harley stood up and frowned. "That's a damn shame, kiddo. You're good... No, not just good. There's something in you, something special. To make things like this, that's a gift, and it needs sharing." She looked down at the portrait of Julayla. "I hope this isn't the only one you did. Does Sally have the other one?"

"Er... no... I've been meaning to give her the original, but she's always busy..." He flushed deep red under his fur, tail twitching. "You know how it is..."

Evidently not, for Harley swiftly cuffed him upside his head. "Goddess damn it, Corwyn! How could you not give it to her? When I come back, I'll be talking to her, and if I don't hear that picture's made it to her hands, you are CUT OFF. You understand?"

Corwyn squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. "Yeah, I get it. Just... keep quiet about it until you go, okay? I want it to come from me, you know?"

Harley peered at him, snorted and nodded. "I'm not kidding, though. You'll have to go rock-hunting yourself from now on if she doesn't get that painting."

He made a big deal about shoving the bundle of pigments and the fourth painting into his bag, avoiding her eyes. "I heard you the first time! And... thanks for the shipment." Before she could say another word, he walked quickly away.

----------------

Harley has no idea, he grumbled to himself, of how difficult it's going to be now. If I just go up to her and hand her that picture, she's probably going to think I've got some kind of school-boy crush on her! And she's almost eight years younger than me! He shivered. He didn't need THAT kind of publicity. The rumor-mill around Knothole could be a vicious one, and if people got it into their heads that he was making passes at the Princess... Gods! He'd never be able to show his face in Knothole again!

He sighed as he walked among the supply wagons, picking up a canvas sack and filling it with various breads, cheeses, fruits, and cured meat. Food, at least, was free, thanks to the multitudes of sympathizers. It was the specialty items that cost. He was fortunate to find an art lover among the lot, or he'd have run out of good supplies years ago. And now that supply looked to be drying up, thanks to his hemming and hawing over a painting that, by all rights, should have made it to Sally the day of the funeral. He grimaced as he made his way back to his house. She was right, of course, but it didn't make what he had to do any easier. Still, there had to be a way...

Walking into his cool, brightly-lit living room eased his mind some. He took a deep breath, reveling in the bitter scents of paint and solvent. He looked down, and noticed a sheet of paper that had been slipped under his door. He picked it up, setting his bag down and easing into his chair. It was the sentry assignments for the week. It seemed he was slated for the western lookout point. He grinned as an idea hit him. Of course! Sally's house was right on the way! And since he had the late shift, he could get the portrait to Sally without anyone knowing it was him!

Humming to himself, he sat down and started to write a quick note. When that was done, he got a large piece of heavy brown paper and set about carefully wrapping the picture up.

-------------

Sally was working hard on mapping out the next set of movements for another hit-and-run attack on Robotropolis when her concentration was shattered by a quick, insistent knock on her door. When she opened it, however, nothing was there but a large brown package, to which a note had been pinned.

Puzzled, she took the package into her room, and set it on her desk. Picking up the note, she read it, hoping to find out who had done this. It certainly didn't seem Sonic's style...

_Sally --_

_This should have found you a long time ago.__  
I hope it still carries the same meaning it__  
would have then._

No name, nothing beyond that cryptic remark. Sighing, she started to tear at the wrapping. But when it was unwrapped, the picture was face down. It had to be a picture, with a strip of wire to hang it from. She turned it over, more curious by the moment.

It was a long time before she could think. She sat down heavily, her mouth open, one hand on her heart. This painting... it was Julayla. Her mentor, her surrogate mother, and her best friend... She was there, sitting peacefully before a softly lit wall. Her hands were folded on her lap, and she was smiling faintly, amused at her ward's antics. Her eyes carried every inch of the kindness, warmth, and patience Sally remembered from her childhood. Even now, it seemed that Julayla would at any moment step off the canvas and hold her close. The only thing that kept her from believing this was the banner painstakingly detailed across the bottom: "In Memoriam: Beloved Julayla"

She swallowed, trying to force down the lump that had suddenly risen in her throat. Her eyes stung, and her vision went blurry. Wiping her eyes, she picked the painting up and carried it to the living room. Removing the old landscape that hung over the fireplace, she reverently placed the portrait of Julayla in its place.

She stood there for hours, lost in memories both joyful and hurtful. "Thank you..." She didn't know who had given her this gift, and at the moment, it didn't matter.

Julayla was with her again.

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C&C, please!


	3. Lines in the Sand

Boring Legal Stuff: Sonic the Hedgehog and all related characters are the property of SEGA, DIC, and Archie Comics. No, I didn't ask to use 'em. Not like they'll ever notice, anyway. Corwyn Darkstripes and Co. are my copyright, and I ask that you tell me before you consider using these characters. So far, the only non-licensed character that isn't mine is Bookshire Draftwood. He's the property of David Pistone, and I'm sure he doesn't mind the brief mention in this story, even if I didn't ask him.

Foreword --

And Round Two begins. The slice-of-life presented in the first story takes on more weight. Hey, I'm sorry, but it's not in my nature to just follow someone's life without making it more epic than "Get up, work, eat, sleep, repeat." And to preempt all your comments on this story, yes, I know that second scene is completely befuddling. It's supposed to be. You'll understand later, I promise. That said, enjoy.

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"So, you went though with it after all, eh?"

Corwyn turned from his work, frowning at the voice that sounded from his doorway. "Harley, don't you ever knock?"

The smirking feline walked through the door, shaking her head. "I never thought you had it in you, kiddo. Congratulations. Although I should technically follow through with my threat, since you did chicken out and leave the painting on her porch."

Corwyn glared. "You never said anything about giving it to her personally! How did you know about that, anyway? I didn't see you over by her house!"

"Kid, it's the talk of the entire town! Nobody has any clue who made that picture. The only eyewitness says she just saw a raccoon, so Bookshire's a suspect, but the rest of them seem to think one of the gods left it!" Harley laughed and shook her head. "Idiots. But I will give you points for a good delivery. And speaking of which..." She grinned and set the bundle she had been carrying. "You must have forgotten what day it is. I have presents!"

Corwyn's eyes lit up. "Harley, you remembered! I thought nobody knew my birthday was coming up!"

Harley laughed. "Well, if you actually talked to people... Anyway, this is mostly your regular shipment. The present is in there, though, but you have to get over here and see it for yourself." She looked around the small house. "Mind if I sit down?"

"What? Oh, Goddess, Harley, I'm sorry. Please, sit over there," he said, motioning to an overstuffed chair in a corner. "I'll get some tea on." With that, he hurried off to the kitchen, leaving his friend to gaze in wonder at the paintings lining the walls.

"Corwyn, you jerk, you've been holding out on me!" She shook her head, then turned to regard the painting he'd been working on when she arrived. It seemed to be another of those cave-paintings, but something was very different. She peered at it, trying to remember what was so familiar about the figures, but couldn't for the life of her figure it out. "Hey... What's this you're working on?"

"What? Oh, that," he said, poking his head out of the kitchen. "I know, it's weird, isn't it? I don't usually do a series like that, but something just..." He paused, trying to find the right words. "It didn't seem finished. So, comes this one." The kettle started to whistle, seizing his attention. "Whoops... Back in a moment."

While Corwyn poured the tea, she stared at the unfinished painting. It was barely more than a sketch over the paint wash, but she could discern five figures. Two seemed to be horses, and the one on the left could only be a dragon, but the two near the middle... "Hey, who are those two flanking the horse in the middle?"

He turned to look at the figures she was talking about. "Oh, them. They're... birds of some kind, I think. I won't really know more until it's farther along." He fell silent, gazing almost meditatively at the canvas.

Harley frowned. "Hey... this isn't like you. You know more about what you're going to be doing than anyone who sees it. Why all the mystery?" There was something unsettling in the way his eyes had lost focus. And the rapt, amost vacant expression that was on his face was definitely unnatural. "Corwyn? Knothole to Corwyn, are you there?"

"Huh?" He shook his head, trying to clear the fuzziness that seemed to invade his mind. "Sorry... I was trying to think of what I'd be doing next."

She regarded him warily. "I'm not sure I should give you that present..."

He laughed. "You do that, Harlequin Connors, and you will get cut off! Now, what do you have for me?"

She sighed, and grabbed the bundle, unwrapping it to reveal a collection of paper packages. "Well, I figured you might be running low on your binder, so I picked up something I'd heard about over the other side of Boulder Bay. It's powdered seaweed, actually, but it's supposed to make a terrific gelling agent. I figured you could play with it and see if it works. If nothing else, you could always eat it, I guess. And a trader who does the Great Unknown route saw your paintings, and almost offered his left arm for the two I could part with." She laughed, remembering the way she'd very nearly traded him out of his fur. "I settled for a few bundles of pigment I knew you hadn't been able to get for a while. And that fur-wrapped bundle is your present."

Corwyn turned the tied bundle of fur in his hands, trying to feel out what it could be. Though the wrapping hid its dimensions for the most part, it felt very heavy and thick. And rectangular... "A book?"

"Not just any book, kiddo. It was my last delivery date that gave me the idea." She grinned, watching his eyes light up as the fur fell away. "Maybe now you can quit taking up our dear Princess' time."

"The Ancient Writings of Mobius: Observations on the Time Before Time," he read, his face alight, "Harley, this is great! How in the world did you find something like this?"

"The Wolf Pack is famous for keeping histories. They think that someone needs to remember what happened before. So, I decided to give them a better deal on their usual spice shipments in exchange for a look into their libraries for a single book." She'd never say that she'd given them almost half their shipment free, but Corwyn was one of the few people she liked enough to take a cut for. Hell, she thought, when it came down to it, he treated her like a person instead of a vending robot, and she could count the number of people who did that on one hand.

"Harley... I don't know how to thank you..." He hugged the cat tightly, making her squirm in her seat.

"Get off, get off! Paws and claws, I have a reputation, boy!" She chuckled as he let go. "No need to get all mushy on me. Just do what you're good at, and give me a cut of it, and we'll be even."

He smiled and nodded. "Speaking of which, I assume you want this month's bounty."

She shook her head. "Naw, this old pirate's got more than enough in her hold this time. Call it my other present."

"Harley... I can't do that. You've got a business to run."

"And your color runs are a sideline, boy. I can afford to go without pampering myself for one month. But I'll be waiting to see what you have next time I come around." She chewed on a claw thoughtfully. "Which won't be until winter, unfortunately. I've a long trip around the horn to the other side of the continent due, and I can't put it off any longer. You're all right on materials, right?"

The raccoon smiled wryly. "I've got enough to last me until Midsummer, thanks to you. Don't worry about that. I promise you'll have more than enough to drool over next I see you."

Harley nodded, finishing her tea. "Well, I've gotta get going. I've held up my stall long enough, and I need to ship out by tomorrow night." She smiled. "Take care of yourself, kiddo. I'll be back in time for Solstice." She clasped his shoulder briefly, then headed back out to the village proper.

Corwyn smiled as he took a seat, thumbing through the book he'd gotten. It was much more detailed than the studies he'd borrowed from Sally, and went into detail about speculations on the meanings found at each site. With luck, he could find the perfect set to border his latest painting.

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"You can't be serious."

"I'm afraid I am, my dear brother."

"A scrawny whelp of a boy like that? What good is he?"

"That 'whelp,' as you so rudely put it, fits my purpose better than any blade-swinging brute you would favor."

"That's not the point! He means nothing to anyone! He barely takes his head out of the clouds long enough to do the most basic of his duties!"

"And when did it hurt anyone? He's got more gift than you give him credit for, Rubeus. You would do well to remember that."

_**ENOUGH SQUABBLING, YOU TWO. CUSP APPROACHES, AND WE ALL MUST DECIDE A COURSE OF ACTION. **_

"My mind is made up, sister. I side with the boy."

_**VERY WELL. I SHALL LEAVE IT TO YOU TO CHOOSE THE PROPER TIME**_

"I still say her wits are addled..."

_**YOUR OPINIONS ARE IRRELEVANT, RUBEUS. IT IS HER CHOICE ALONE TO MAKE. NOW, MAERIBETH, CAST YOUR PLANS.**_

"Yes, sister."

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Building up the layers of paint was a hideously difficult process, requiring almost mind-warping concentration. For about the hundredth time, he asked himself why he had decided do abuse himself this way, and for the hundredth time, the answer was immediate and obvious. Because it had to be done this way.

Corwyn sighed, wiping his forehead with a paint-stained hand. He was getting a terrible headache from staring at his work so long. He needed a break. Placing his brush into the small cup of water set into the easel, he stretched, feeling his back pop. Wow, he thought, how long have I been at this?

Looking up, his eyes widened as he saw the night sky beyond his window. He couldn't believe it. Had he been painting all day? He could barely remember working so long! His last clear thought was when he started this morning! He massaged the bridge of his muzzle, sighing. Thank the Goddess he didn't have guard duty today... He shook his head, looking to see how much he had managed to get done. Well, he thought, at least there won't be much more of this. The pictograms were completely finished, and all that remained to be done were the five figures in the center. It was odd that he hadn't finished those first. But he couldn't drag the image to the front of his mind, and so wasn't terribly upset that they were unclear on the canvas. Sometimes, painting was like that. He'd finish them when he got the chance.

He didn't feel very sleepy, though, so he decided to do some reading before bed. The book Harley had gotten him was fascinating, for more than research material. Whoever the author was, he was indeed passionate about his topic, as though the information was rather dry, there was an intensity that came across as clearly as the feeling which permeated his artwork. He opened the book to a much-read passage, the one he had taken the pictograms from, and lost himself in the old tale.

_The old gods were sprung from the driving force of all creation, and each stood as a testament to the virtues of old. They were not involved in the mundane matters of daily life, but represented ideals, to which every living Mobian of the time aspired to. They were abstract deities, given form only when the need arose, when they would come to Mobius to correct a grave imbalance to Nature. _

_History does not name these gods, and perhaps they were never given names. The only legends written name their domains; Life, War, Balance, Peace, and Magic. It is thought they they governed the four elements of creation, but many chroniclers dispute such a claim, saying that such thoughts spring from later beliefs of the Early Pre-Technological era. Indeed, it seems more in character with what little is known about the prehistoric civilizations to regard these deities as pure abstractions, the noblest facets of all that is honorable. Even the God of War is regarded as a gentle, if stern, protector. _

_Sadly, much of what is known about these deities is lost to the winds of time. If only more could be learned..._

Corwyn yawned as the heavy hand of sleep closed over him. Enough for one day. It was time for bed. He set the book aside, and stumbled off to his bedroom, carelessly pushing the covers aside and dropping like a stone into the mattress, asleep before he hit the pillow.

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The next morning, he decided to go to the tavern for breakfast, having grown bored with eating by himself. Maybe he'd take Harley's advice, and try to socialize a bit. It certainly couldn't hurt to have someone else to talk to now and again.

The moment he opened the well-polished door to the tavern, the bustling commotion of the popular restaurant washed over him. Almost everywhere were people leaning over plates, talking and eating. Here and there, a few survivors of the Great War were hunched over the first of what would undoubtedly be many drinks. Corwyn spotted an empty table near the back and hurried to take it, before someone else came in and claimed what was likely the last table in the house.

In short order, a pretty young waitress found her way to his table. "Well, hello there," the perky young rabbit said, "first time eating here?"

Corwyn smiled nervously. "Yes, it is. What do you have for breakfast?"

"Well, what's your preference? Meat or veggies?" Her small pink nose wiggled in distaste. "If you're a fan, though, we have chili dogs ready to make all day."

Corwyn chuckled. "No, thank you. How about meat?"

She brightened, glad that she wasn't going to have to serve another of Sonic's fan club. "Well, let's see. Karl's got eggs, bacon, and ham on, but if you want something heavier, there's fresh chicken and steak in back."

He nodded, thinking. "You have sausage? Minus chili, of course."

The rabbit giggled. "I think we can find some. What'll it be, then?"

"How about scrambled eggs, sausage, and fried potatoes?"

She nodded, taking a short pencil from behind one long, floppy ear and scribbling his order down. "It'll be a while, since we're bogged down at the moment. I'll be back with some coffee while you're waiting. If there's anything else you need, just give me a shout. Name's Linda." She scurried off to the kitchen to place another order, leaving Corwyn to stare around the room.

He didn't know most of the poeple here, though he recognized a few of the vendors, stopping by for a bite before they had to leave. The people sitting nearest him seemed to be Freedom Fighter enthusiasts, judging from the snippets of conversation that floated his way. But in the far corner, under a shadowed eave, a single female porcupine sat, hunched over what looked like a large cup of coffee. He couldn't remember seeing her before, and it seemed that everyone else here avoided her like the plague, judging from the occasional glare turned her way.

He nodded as Linda came by with his drink, and glanced over to the porcupine. "Who's that?"

"Who?" Linda followed his gaze, and seeing the female, frowned.

"That's Heather. She's a bad one, I hear. Nobody in town likes her, and I hear she's done terrible things before she came here. They say even Sally's not sure if she's safe."

"What do you mean? If she's so bad, why's she here?"

Linda shrugged. "Dunno. Anyone who knows her is keeping their mouth shut about her, and she won't talk to anyone long enough to give them an answer. But you know the rumor mill, and it's got nothing but poison for that one. I hear her tongue's more barbed than her quills. If I were you, sir, I'd keep far away from her." She looked up toward the kitchen. "Looks like your order's up. I'll be right back."

Corwyn barely paid attention to his meal, staring at Heather and wondering what could possibly be so bad about a single female.

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Over the next few days, he tried to find out, with as much subtlety as possible, anything he could about Heather. The only real information he could pick up was that her full name was Heather Blackthorne, and she was the only survivor of the town of Coldbrook, on the far southern edge of the Great Forest. It seemed that most of the rumors that flew around her had something to do with that raid, and speculations as to why she was the sole survivor. The problem was, everyone he'd talked to had a different story to tell, and he found it difficult to believe that one female could at once sell the town out, murder all the sentries, round up the entire village, AND lead the SWATbot platoon that took over the town. But one thing was clear; she was a pariah, someone to be avoided at all costs, and trusted as far as she could be thrown, in six feet of water.

He leaned back in his chair, sighing. He hadn't been as subtle as he'd hoped, unfortunately. People were starting to give him odd, sideways glances when he went about his daily business, and he'd noticed he'd gone from being 'that odd boy who keeps to himself' to 'the skulking hermit on the edge of town.' Yes, the rumor mill was vicious, indeed. He decided to take a walk, to clear his mind and focus on the still-unfinished painting sitting on the easel.

Though he was normally active during the day, the Great Forest still held a strange power over him at night. Something deep in his heart came alive when he first breathed the night air, sharpening his senses and making everything more clear. He loved these 'inspirationals,' and took care not to take them too often, lest the magic fade. For hours, he simply wandered, letting his feet lead him where they would, and taking in all the glory the night had to offer.

His sense of peace was jarred, however, when a rough push sent him stumbling forward. His foot caught on a large root, and he went sprawling face-first into the dirt. Groaning, he shook his head, and rolled over to see who had done this.

Standing over him was the porcupine, Heather, her fists clenched and venom in her eyes. "I hear you've been asking around about me," she snarled. "What do you want?"

It took him a minute to switch gears, and register what she'd said. "Hey... Ease up, I was just curious, is all."

Her eyes narrowed. "Curious, huh? Figures. You ringtails always poke your noses where they don't belong. Well, let me tell you something. Leave it alone. I hear you asking about me again, I'll give you a few new whiskers to remember me by." She lashed her spiked tail to emphasize the point. "You get me?" He arched an eyebrow. "You make it sound like I'm looking to get you run out of town."

"That ain't my problem, boy. All I care about's getting you off my tail. So do yourself a favor, and yiff off." She turned and started to stalk back to town.

Corwyn couldn't help but ask. "What really happened at Coldbrook?"

Before he could move, she was on him, one knee dug painfully into his side, and his chestfur yanked on by both her hands. Her pale green eyes were narrowed into hateful slits. "Go ahead, ringtail. Ask me again. Give me a good reason to beat the crap out of you." Her lip curled, revealing small, pointed teeth. "I told you, leave it. I won't ask you nicely the next time." She shoved him back into the dirt on the path, and stood up. Growling deep in her throat, she turned and walked quickly back toward town.

This time, Corwyn kept silent, watching her go. He groaned as he got up. "Corwyn, Corwyn, Corwyn," he muttered to himself, "you gave got to think before you talk..." He winced as his bruised side complained, and started slowly back to his house. There went a perfectly good evening...

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As always, C&C are encouraged. If you plan to use these characters, let me know, and I will give you the biographies, and will send you regular updates as I continue the saga.


	4. A Light in the Shadows

Boring Legal Stuff: I do not own Sonic, or Knothole, or any of the canon characters, obviously. I'd be rich if I did, and that's about as far from reality as it gets. No, those lucky people would be SEGA, DIC, and Archie Comics Publications. Corwyn and Heather are mine, and they won't be making me any money. But that doesn't mean I won't take offense if you use them without asking me first. Think soft bits, pencils, and piano wire.

FOREWORD: Warning. It's going to take a turn to the seriously dark, here, and will likely be the chapter that earns me my R rating. But it's necessary. And I hope things start to get a little more clear. If not, well, wait for the later chapters. I promise in time it'll all make sense.

Anyhow, on with the story.

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She sat in the grove, alone, staring dully at the knife in her hands, turning it over and over slowly, as if in a dream. Now and then, a sliver of reflected moonlight played over her face, revealing a face drawn and haggard with the hardships she had endured these last two years. A distant sliver of her old self kicked her for acting so morose and bitter.

_Oh, shut up, you,_ she thought, curling her lip, _you make it sound like I don't have reason to act this way._ _You ought to know better than that!_

_Maybe so,_ her conscience retorted stubbornly,_ but come on, you're wasting your life away! Why don't you get up and _do_ something?_

You_ try getting out of a funk like this when you're under suspicion for turning traitor and selling everyone you ever loved to that... that... bloated fat _bastard!!_ Two years, _two years,_ and they're still watching me like hawks, just _waiting_ for me do something suspicious!_

There was no answer for that. There never was. Just like always, all she had were bitter, painful memories, a heart full of hurt, and an old combat knife.

And no idea if she was worth saving.

-----------------

Autumn had descended suddenly this year, bringing with it a crisp bite to the air, the heady scent of apple pies baking throughout the day, and, of course, leaves aplenty that needed raking. Autumn was one of the great social times for the little village of Knothole, when all the family groups, both blood realatives and heart-kin, would come very close to forgetting the war that ravaged the world all around them and live out a normal, idyllic existence. Even the Core Freedom Fighters, who were usually very rarely seen over the course of a normal day, could be seen all around the village proper, laughing and having a good time. Of course, Sonic was the most active and cheerful of the lot, and had been the inspiration for a very enthusiastic, if poorly organized, dirt-hockey league.

Since the autumn was such a heavy social time of the year, it only followed that it was also a major time of renewal for the rumor mill. A chance to search out new, fresh targets, and find new reasons to revive the old points of gossip. And as always, none were more vulnerable targets than those who preferred to keep behind closed doors. Nevermind that nobody ever bothered to knock on those doors and draw them into the open. It was, after all, the principle of the thing.

Corwyn rolled his eyes and sighed as he walked down the lane back to his hut. _Every year,_ he thought, _it gets more and more attractive to just walk out and not have to _deal_ with this mess anymore..._

But then where would he be? He had no idea how to live off the land; his parents were _office workers,_ for the gods' sake! _Not to mention ever since the Coldbrook incident, there isn't a Freedom Fighter camp that'll go _near_ the Great Forest anymore, and who does that leave? Spies, murderers, thievs, and similarly _pleasant_ folk who have good reason to stay out of sight. No, thank you._

These musings, as well as the hushed whispers that danced at the edge of his hearing as he passed by, turned his thoughts to the only known survivor of Coldbrook, Heather Daines. _Oh, _there's_ a nest of hornets you just had to go and shake up..._

Following the little encounter last month that had very nearly given him a trip to the clinic, Heather had become even more scarce than usual. And every time he _did_ find himself in sight of the reclusive porcupine, he was surprised he didn't fall down dead from the sheer venom in her eyes. One thing was for certain, at least; she would not give him a chance to dig up anything mroe on her, and would likely carry though with her promise if she ever did catch him sniffing around for more information about her.

Adjusting his pack, he heaved another sigh as he opened the door to his hut._ And now you're even _more_ curious. Stupid, foolish, masochistic ringtail..._

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_:Sister, are you sure your designs are set?_:

"As I've so _often_ reminded our brothers, Hesha, mine is not the way of loud, frantic, bloody battle, or mind-warping knowledge. I should _think_ you know better."

_:You're agitated.:_

"No, _annoyed_ would be a better word. Rubeus and Jaeger have fallen to sniping at each other, the shadow of the Corruptors is looming large over the horizon, and all our eldest can do is remind us, in her _infinite_ wisdom, how near the crux has become."

_:You seem to have already removed yourself from the conflict, though. Why does all this bother you?:_

"No, I have _not._ But while all of you are sharpening your swords for the battle, _someone_ has to watch out for all the families and bystanders. Wars may be fought and won by armies and heroes, but you know as well as I do that the world is held by the people on the fringes of the battle. It's not _my_ fault that keeps me from this endlessly grinding war..."

_:So Aisyllynn approves of your actions, then?:_

"Better to say, dear sister, that she encourages my plans."

_:Very well. What do you need from me?:_

_:No! You can't ask it of me!:_

"But I must, Hesha. Be easy, no harm will come of it."

_:No. You'll have to find someone else to help you. I will not be a party to this.:_

"There's no one else I can ask, sister. I give you my word that there will be no lasting harm."

_:......Fine. I feel soiled just thinking about what we will do.:_

"For what it's worth, so do I."

_:Then why?:_

"Because there is no other way."

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Corwyn ran his hands through his headfur, heedless of the paint that had clung to his fingers, and now, his hair. His need to finish this painting was becoming little better than obsession, and he knew it. Sketches that could have been finished by now were lying fallow all around his hut, cast aside in his need to complete this one, single painting, which nearly glowed with its need to be completed. The pictograms that wreathed the canvas were far different than the last example, and they plucked at his mind, hovering just on the edge of understanding. The figures in the center were still unfinished, and he'd been avoiding them until he'd put the last stroke on the pictograms. That wasn't like him, he usually would have at least _worked_ a bit over the sketch, given them more definition... But for some unexplainable reason, he'd shied away from giving them form and shape.

But now it was unavoidable. His hand shook as he picked up his brush, and he frowned. All that fine writing had worn his fingers out, and the strange turn of his thoughts had to be from the paint fumes that permeated the hut.

_Maybe a walk would do me good..._

Now where had that thought come from? What he needed was to go to bed; he had guard duty tomorrow night, and needed to be at least something resembling alert.

_But if I take a walk, I can relax a little before I sleep..._

Well, that was very true. His sleep had been restless lately, and he could never remember why upon waking. But all the signs of fatigue were evident. Perhaps a walk would get him calmed enough to keep the dreams at bay...

_And maybe I can find something to give me a little help with this painting..._

He scoffed at that idle thought as he pulled on his vest. This wasn't an inspirational, he had no intention of probing his creative depths. Just a simple walk under the crisp night air. Now _that_ sounded really attractive.

------------------

Once again, she'd found herself in the forest clearing, turning her knife over and over as her thoughts took the long, winding spiral of hopelessness.

_Why can't I just be left alone?_

_Because they need someone to hate,_ she told the plaintive mental voice. _They have to have a villain closer to hand. One _they_ can do something about.._

_But it's not fair! I never did anything to them!_

She snorted. _I lived, stupid. Remember? If it had been _my_ dead body beside Piotyr's, even if I had killed myself just to be with him, they would have just sighed, shook their heads, and told themselves what a tragedy it was. But _no,_ I had to go running for _help..._ Last time I'll ever make that mistake..._

_But it hurts so much..._

That caused her throat to tighten, her eyes welling up with tears. _Yes, it does... And they know it, and they _love_ to see each blow fall..._

_They can't... they're not _that_ evil..._

_They don't have to be evil, just blind..._

_But isn't there any way I can get away from it?_

She didn't answer herself in word, or thought. There were no words for such an answer, it could only be spoken in deed.

And the knife didn't even hurt...

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_Well, I'm glad I did this,_ Corwyn thought as he pushed another low-hanging branch out of the way. He had, indeed, felt shades better since delving into the night-time world of the Great Forest. His thoughts, which had become a confused, exhausted jumble of white noise in his mind, had evened out, become cool, still serenity. His hands had even stopped shaking, and he flexed them experimentally, quite relieved to find no trace of stiffness or soreness._ Heh. A nighttime stroll, the cure for what ails you._

He stopped dead as he caught a rank scent in the air. His eyes widened as he cought the thick, coppery tang of blood, and without a thought, he pounded through the woods, following the scent trail to its head. _Oh, gods, what's happened? Did someone get waylaid, or is it one of the patrols? Maybe if I go go back--_

His jaw dropped in horror as he burst into the clearing where the scent was heaviest. It was a porcupine, female by its build, just lying there, her back to him. A growing pool of scarlet was spreading around her head, matting her quills, and as he got closer, he could see a bloody knife lying next to her nose. Kneeling, he gingerly turned her over, careful not to get poked by her quills, and he cought his breath a second time.

_Heather?!_

She was unconscious, and as he frantically looked her over, he saw the blood was pouring from a careful, even slice across both her wrists. _Suicide? But--_

_No. No time for that._ The blood from the wounds hadn't slowed, and if he acted quickly, he could be able to save her life. Quickly shedding his vest, he did the only thing he could think of; he statred tearing it into strips, tightly binding her wounds. He got worried as he saw the blood continue to stain the fabric, but he figured it would be all right for now... Just until he could get her back to the house. He slid his arms under her neck and knees, wincing as the quills dug into his flesh. _Oh, that's gonna leave a mark..._

It wasn't easy to carry her limp, unresisting body though the Forest. She was dead weight in his arms, and he wasn't honestly the strongest of Knothole's residents. Plus, between the scratching, tearing foliage, and Heather's own personal armament, he'd long ago stopped trying to tell whose blood belonged to whom. But in the end, he managed to stagger into his hut, and drop her on his cot. Looking down at the many scratches and puncture wounds he'd earned, he considered getting his bottle of iodine and a clean rag, but one look at the scarlet bandages on Heather's wrists stopped that thought with an almost audible whipcrack.

_No. See to her, first, then yourself._

Two thick, fluffy towels replaced the ragged strips of bloodstained cotton around her wrists, and he noticed with some relief that the blood had slowed, and she still had a pulse, though faint and fluttery it was. _You may still get through this, you poor wretch..._

When he was convinced that she wouldn't be dying on him anytime soon, he got up and went for the iodine. After he'd wiped the blood off his body and face, he soaked another rag liberally in the sharp-smelling stuff, hissing as he dabbed it to his many marks. The pain certainly didn't improve his mood any, and a bright coal of anger started to burn in his heart. _Why the hell did it have to come to this?! We're supposed to be a _family_ here! _Someone_ had to see what all the gossip and backbiting was doing to her!_

Which made him even angrier, because he knew that they didn't. _That gods-damned rumor mill! It finally chewed someone up so badly they wouldn't have survived! I don't care _what_ anyone says about me, I am going to Sally tomorrow and get this straightened out, _now!

That was tomorrow. Right now, he had a job to do. It would be no less than a miracle if the poor woman lasted through the night. He sighed as he looked over at her, sprawled out on his one-person cot. _Looks like it's you and me tonight, chair,_ he thought ruefully. _I hope she appreciates this..._

He shook his head, and curled up on the armchair, not even realizing that he didn't think about his painting once since coming home... And his dreams were as quiet and still as he could have asked...

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C&C, of course, as always. And yes, I know. I'm going to be breaking my no-canon rule, but the story directs itself, and it just came out that way.


End file.
